


at the right hand of the father

by rillrill



Series: Revolutionary Whore [4]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Coming In Pants, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, M/M, Oral Sex, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 17:44:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5300795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But much as he craves it, the lack of praise or vocal feedback only makes Alexander work harder. In this, it is like all their other endeavors — not a partnership, but an agreement, a work order. Washington commands and Hamilton follows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	at the right hand of the father

**Author's Note:**

> "I could've been your father, but now I'm gonna be your daddy." - George Washington probably
> 
> Um, the Hamlaurens and Hamliza are both mostly background. Sorry if that's what you're here for. I just really love Alexander Hamilton and his massive giant blinking pile of daddy issues.
> 
> Not sure whether to warn for incest because CLEARLY there's no incest going on here, but like, if the idea of being confused about your feelings for a father figure you also want to bone is something that squicks you, probably turn back right now! Okay that's all.

The general is an immense man. Large in stature, yes, but he would feel just as enormous even if he were shorter and narrower than Hamilton himself. He fills up every room he’s in and speaks decisively, not a word wasted. His economy with language, fittingly, is what first strikes a chord with Alexander. It’s something he doesn’t have himself, something he doubts he ever really will. When Washington calls for him, he comes. What other course of action does he have?  
  
He is _helpless._  
  
The story doesn’t start here. The story really starts in St. Croix. It starts when James Hamilton ran off, without granting his wife so much as the suggestion of a divorce or annulment, or without having the courtesy to die and make her a widower, to legitimize the things she did later to survive. And then it spiraled from there, his new father figures proving uninspiring, Rachel Hamilton herself expiring from fever, her 12-year-old son in her arms, his brother a simpleton. He had never wished or wanted for a father so badly as he did in that moment. Not so much his own father as anyone, someone who could take him aside and tell him to be a man, someone who could lead by example. But no such figure appeared. So yes, at twelve years old, Alexander realized he was on his own.  
  
Upon arrival in New York, he searches for something, anything, to which he can pledge allegiance. He wants a new family and he finds that in the revolution. He finds that in Mulligan and Lafayette, and in Laurens, _especially_ in Laurens. He finds something else in John Laurens as well — the moment their eyes meet, the first time their hands brush unexpectedly as Laurens hands him a pint in a tavern, it’s as if a bell as been struck within him, one that cannot be un-rung. And from that day onward, their minds cannot be untangled or unseparated.  
  
They stay up until morning, talking in the hushed, excited way that carries an edge of something else. Something dangerous.  
  
While young ladies and their ways certainly hold fast in their appeal, this part of Alexander craves the barefisted intellectual challenge of a gentleman’s arguments and debates. He revels in it, these opportunities to get better, to feel out the edges of his polemic style and discover where his weaknesses lie. It all plays out in the safe arena of their friendship, where he finds that it makes his blood run hot and his pulse quicken in a way that is all too familiar. It’s too similar to the way he feels when he touches a beautiful woman. And it is —  
  
It’s complicated.  
  
It’s unlawful, for starters, and he has no intention of following through on his desire for that reason. Because he did not claw his way up from the grime of St. Croix to betray his potential, his faith, his future in this way. He will be the model American. His desire is his desire and he will keep it to himself. Until the end of time.  
  
Well, the end of time arrives roughly four months after he meets John Laurens for the first time, and by then it feels as if he’s been holding back for eternity, anyway. He’s not even certain of how it happens — one moment they’re alone together, a single candle lighting their sheafs of paper, and suddenly there’s a brush of a hand, a shake of hair, and Laurens’ lips are pressed against his (or is it the other way around?). And it’s bliss, a kind of pure aphrodisiac Alexander has never felt. The inevitable collision of bodies working in tandem with their expertly synchronized intellects. It’s perfect.  
  
So he falls in love with John Laurens.  
  
Again, it seemed inevitable. Two minds that work together the way theirs do — it’s only a matter of time until their hearts follow suit. But Laurens, somehow, doesn’t seem to believe or understand the depth of Alexander’s feelings. He knows Alexander too well, and indeed, when the opportunity to bed another presents itself, Alexander takes it. He sees nothing wrong with this. They have taken no vows, only in the most informal sense —  
  
_John’s hands are on top of his wrists, his fingers digging into the bone and flesh there, a line of kisses trailing down his throat._  
  
_“I’m yours,” Laurens whispers between kisses, and Alexander shivers, not just from the sensation of hot breath against his neck._  
  
_“Mine,” Alexander repeats sotto voce, and the rustle and chirp of crickets and cicadas outside their tent grow lower as Laurens knocks his legs further apart with his own knee. The rest is silence._  
  
But pithy sentiments uttered in the heat of the moment are not vows. He has no such sacrament to fret about dishonoring, not when he is still unconvinced that what they do at night in their tents and the back rooms of taverns won’t damn them in the first place.

 

 

  
  
And then he is summoned to the side of George Washington.  
  
The general stands head and shoulders above anyone else in Alexander’s purview, and what’s more, he seems fond of Alexander. Fond in a way that he has perhaps been waiting his entire life to feel. Washington is fatherly toward him, in a way his own father never was. And so what if the first time the general calls him “son,” Alexander feels a stirring somewhere deep inside him, that doesn’t feel like how a father should make him feel at all? It’s mere confusion, respect comingling with the effects of what he and Laurens do at night in their tents.  
  
No. It isn’t worth troubling himself over it.  
  
Except that the condition inevitably worsens, turns into a sort of mania. He wakes, night after night, out of fitful sleep cut with ungentlemanly dreams about his commander. He mans his journal, writes his correspondence, and after hours of writing with intermittent dictation to follow, his hands and neck and eyes all ache. At this rate, a battle command seems almost less fatiguing. Or, at least, he would earn his fatigue and pains as a man should.  
  
But Washington doesn’t give him a command post. Washington gives him nothing but his time and a cramped, aching hand, and a stiffness in the neck that even Laurens, with his own nimble hands, cannot undo. And headaches, tremendous ones, but Alexander has learned to live with those — he adapted, long ago.  
  
Washington gives him nothing, and the less Washington gives him, the more Alexander craves. The general is strict, and does not tolerate lateness. Impudence is punished with dismissal, not tolerated for an instant. However, Washington often looks on him with an intrigued sort of amusement when Alexander cannot hold back his frustrations with other soldiers, Congress, or the British. He begins to wonder whether Washington allows — and even encourages — this kind of private irreverence, because he is not allowed the same privilege anywhere else. As long as Alexander vents his spleen in private and aims his rhetoric at the right people, he is safe. It’s only when he makes the mistake of skewering someone Washington himself holds in high esteem that he faces reprisal.  
  
“I could say the same for you, young man,” Washington says coolly when Alexander disparages the work ethic of another colonel. And then, after a pause, adds, “I believe we’re done for the night.”  
  
“Sir, I didn’t mean to offend—” Alexander says, but Washington won’t hear it.  
  
“Good night, son,” he says with an air of finality, Alexander gathers up his papers and retreats from the general’s quarters, face burning pink with a curious amalgam of shame and arousal.  
  
He wants to make George Washington proud. He craves his commander’s approval, and finds himself saying and doing whatever it takes to earn even the most meager scrap in private. In public, he is still the cocksure bastard colonel Hamilton, and he knows how much it irritates his fellow soldiers, that a man of his low birth and arrogance would ascend to a position of such stature. To be the general’s right hand man, he smirks in the company of his fellow soldiers, has essentially promoted him to a position of second-in-command over the entire Continental Army.  
  
Laurens rolls his eyes at this; later that night he catches Alexander by the elbow and whispers in his ear, “Does this make me third-in-command, then?”  
  
He does not tell Laurens about how Washington makes him feel. Somehow he senses that this would be the end of them; that Laurens, despite his warm heart and charitable nature, would not relish sharing in Alexander’s affections. Laurens may not be a jealous man, but he has already had to share Alexander’s lust with too many others. He deserves this. Alexander tells himself this much.  
  
So he keeps his mouth shut. And he pretends it doesn’t make his stomach jump every time Washington refers to him as “young man,” or, worse, “son.” He wishes he would stop. He hopes he never does.

 

  
It’s a bad idea from the start.  
  
Much as with his consummation with Laurens, it feels inevitable. Inevitable, but also wrong, on a much more fundamental level, because now he is a married man, and with the marriage comes a new set of rules and expectations. It is not that he doesn’t love her, his Eliza. He loves her intensely, a love so immense that he fears he’ll never find the words to explain it. It’s why he keeps writing her letters, drives himself to exhaustion, runs out of words with the hope that someday, eventually, he’ll have the opportunity to look back upon them and realize that he’ll have captured the totality of his love.  
  
But as much as he loves her, he still has to work. And the closer Washington keeps him, the more the general trusts him, the stronger this other feeling — this forbidden pull — becomes. He pushes, and he pulls. The academic in him has had his curiosity sparked, and now he wants to experiment and discover how far he can push it.  
  
This chemistry between them is a keg of gunpowder. Something, eventually, will come along to ignite it. It’s just a question of what and when.  
  
(The answer is his own impudence, his own rudeness, and he should have always expected that this is how it would happen, after all.)  
  
After the first time, there’s no going back. Washington, perhaps against his own better judgment (still better than Hamilton’s, who freely admits he has none) finds ways and reasons to discipline Alexander in his private quarters. When Alexander is not so badly behaved as to provide him a reason, Washington invents them. He keeps his voice as firm as his hand, bids Alexander lean over his desk and count the strokes aloud. And much as with his earliest days with Laurens, it is bliss. Clutching onto the rich wood of the general’s desk, his fingers leaving indents in private papers, smearing the ink written in his own hand, he is finally overtaken, the words forced out of his own mind by more pressing matters.  
  
“Seventeen—” It _hurts_ , and that’s what makes it so intoxicating. Alexander has always had an incredible tolerance for pain, built up bit by bit over his life, and he finds that it sharpens the edge of his arousal, especially with Washington’s hand pressing down on the small of his back. The hand is a guiding reassurance that he can take more, go further, _yes, my boy, don’t quit_.  
  
He notices that Washington doesn’t call him “son.” Not under these circumstances. It is as much a disappointment as a relief.  
  
Discipline is one thing. He admits to himself that perhaps he needs it. But during their work, when his hand is getting sore and his eyes are beginning to glaze and blur the words on the page, Washington will then stop his dictation or lift his hand from his own reading. He lays that hand on the back of Alexander’s neck.  
  
Alexander shivers. Those large hands.  
  
“You look fatigued, young man,” Washington says with uncharacteristic warmth. “Perhaps you would find it agreeable to — change courses in our work tonight.”  
  
They both know what he means. The suggestion hangs in the air for a moment before Alexander returns to his senses and nods. Eagerly. But not too eagerly.  
  
“Of course, sir,” he nods, setting down his pen and allowing himself a quick stretch of the hand. Washington pushes his chair back from the desk, just enough to allow a slim, slight man access to kneel between his legs. Alexander slides to the floor, and, with a wicked grin spreading across his face, looks up to the general as he crawls to where he is seated.  
  
Perhaps it is Alexander’s imagination, but he’s certain he hears a slight moan escape Washington’s parted lips.  
  
He makes quick work of Washington’s breeches, pulling them down just far enough to fret the general from the confines of his pants. Half hard already, he stiffens as Alexander takes him into his mouth. This, he can do. He is more than happy to be here on his knees before his commander, who has one hand threaded through Alexander’s hair as he lets out another quiet, but this time unmistakable, groan.  
  
Alexander stiffens in his own pants at the sound of it, and moans himself, the vibrations around Washington’s cock enough to make the hand in his hair tighten.  
  
Washington never praises him enough during the act itself. He is calm and reticent, collected enough to ensure deniability were they to somehow be discovered. But much as he craves it, the lack of praise or vocal feedback only makes Alexander work harder In this, it is like all their other endeavors — not a partnership, but an agreement, a work order. Washington commands and Hamilton follows. Washington sets the pace, thrusting his hips until he’s worked up a rhythm, and Alexander squeezes his hands into fists at his sides, opens his throat and lets his commander use him. He made the vow to serve, and to take the place of Lady Washington when she is not available to perform her wifely duties is as much a privilege as any other post. He tells himself this as Washington fucks his mouth, both hands sliding into his hair to hold his head steady.  
  
He’s so hard in his own pants. He has been so for minutes.  
  
“Son…” Washington murmurs out of the corner of his mouth, and Alexander’s eyes snap open. His gaze makes contact with Washington’s, who looks almost bewildered. Alexander’s cock jumps as he realizes what the general has just _said._  
  
He can’t help himself. He moans again, desperate and whorish around the cock in his mouth.  
  
Washington’s dark eyes seem to darken further with lust, nearly all pupil in the dim candlelight. “Son,” he repeats, a little more firmly, and Alexander’s hips snap forward against his tight breeches as he strives to take Washington deeper.  
  
_Father_ , he thinks, barely coherent as Washington thrusts even deeper into his throat. _Father._  
  
Washington is close, Alexander can tell from the way his thrusts become more and more erratic, but he’s closer himself. And it’s never happened like this before — he normally does Washington the courtesy of waiting for his hand and his approval. But Washington groans another strangled _Son_ as he he comes, and then Alexander can’t hold back any longer — he’s choking Washington’s bitter taste as he reaches his own climax, no longer able to switch between tasks as his release overtakes him.  
  
Washington sits back upright, his chest heaving. Alexander slowly pulls away, cheers burning, suddenly unable to look him in the eye. The past several times they’ve done this, Washington has pulled him to his feet, sat him on the desk and kissed him softly as he stroked Alexander to his release. This time, however, all Alexander wants to do his beat a hasty retreat and never speak of this again.  
  
But he’s no coward. His eyes flick up to meet Washington’s, and he says through his shame, “Was that to your satisfaction, sir?”  
  
Washington blinks at him through heavy-lidded eyes. He finally releases his grip on Alexander’s hair, and rests his large hands on his own upper thighs, evidently spent.  
  
“Yes,” he says after a moment of hesitation. “I think we should adjourn for the night, Alexander. I’ll see you tomorrow, when we depart for Cooperstown.”  
  
“Sir, I—” Alexander doesn’t know where this is going, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Washington cuts him off in his stead.  
  
“Good night, young man,” he says firmly, meaningfully, and Alexander feels his skin get warm, tight and dizzy all over again. “Tomorrow.”  
  
The words, the implication follow Alexander all the way back to his own quarters. His breeches are supremely uncomfortable, sticky and hot with the remnants of his spilled seed (another sin to add to the ever-growing list, he imagines) and it is just cold enough to make wading into the brook that runs along their encampment feel like a mistake. The cold shocks him, chills him to the bone, and his teeth chatter as he makes his way back to his bed.  
  
  
  
There are rumors. Of course there are rumors.  
  
From the day he began his tenure as Washington’s deputy, there was talk about the general’s motives. What would compel a man, a Virginian of such stature, to take on a young protegé of such low birth if not for some personal stake in the matter? To many, he becomes colloquially known as “Washington’s bastard.” The matter, he suspects, certainly isn’t helped by Washington’s tendency to call him “son” in any given context now, both public and private.  
  
Washington has no true born sons. This Alexander is more than aware of. He marriedinto a widower’s family, but for one reason or another, has never set about having one of his own. And yet Alexander is almost certain that Washington does not see him as a son, at least not in the classical sense.  
  
Much as Washington has never known a son, Alexander has never known a father. But even so, he senses that it would be improper for a father to treat him the way Washington does. It doesn’t stop him, however, from repeating “Father” in his head when the general gives him cause, when he ceases to be his commander in battle and is simply Alexander’s firm, guiding hand in bed.  
  
It’s wrong. He’s certain of this; he repeats it to himself though he dares not write it down. But in these few months — when he has Eliza waiting for him on leave, and Laurens in their tent, and Washington calling him “son” when they steal their moments alone at night, Alexander feels the closest he’s ever come to true satisfaction.  
  
But the rumors only become more persistent. And the situation only deepens.  
  
The first time Washington fucks him, they’re out of the tents and inside an inn for the first time in weeks. He summons Alexander to his room by messenger, and when he arrives, the general is waiting for him, his expression tender yet inscrutable as always.  
  
“You wanted to see me,” Alexander says, and then pauses. “Sir.”  
  
Washington nods. “I have need of you, young man,” he says, holding out a hand to beckon Alexander closer. “I hope that you will share my bed tonight. We may be forced out at a second’s notice, and I hope you understand that I need to know where you are. I can’t lose you, son.”  
  
Alexander smiles crookedly, stepping a little closer. “You don’t need to worry about that,” he says, before their lips meet in a soft kiss that feels oddly inappropriate and _right_ for the moment. Alexander has never been invited into his bed; he has never been afforded this measure of intimacy. He intends to savor it and soak up each moment that passes: the shedding of waistcoats and undershirts, Washington’s strong, dark chest underneath. Alexander can’t keep his hands off it. Off him. The closest thing he’s ever known to a father figure, who moans _Son_ out loud as Alexander clumsily reaches for the buttons on his pants.  
  
Washington repeats it as he fucks him — not to semantic saturation, but just enough that Alexander’s cock bobs and jerks a little more with each repetition. He has never done it like this, never taken the woman’s position. The number of times he and Laurens did this, he was not the one to be fucked. He wonders, briefly, if he looks half as beautiful as Eliza does on her back, with his legs wrapped around Washington’s waist, drawing him deeper, desperate for more contact, more skin on his, just _more._  
  
“Father,” he whispers reverently, and Washington thrusts into him harder, apparently emboldened by the word.  
  
“Son,” Washington groans into Alexander’s neck as he lets his head drop to bury it between his neck and shoulder. They volley back and forth, the word sounding more like a gasp each time, until Alexander comes with a shudder and Washington’s large hand wrapped around his cock, the general himself not far behind.  
  
He half expects Washington to bid him goodnight and send him back to his room afterward, as with every other time before. Perhaps it’s the low light or the soft feather bed, a luxury after months in the trenches. Washington frowns as Alexander makes a move such as to get up.  
  
“I told you before, I want you to stay,” he says softly, and Alexander does as he commands. He always does.  
  
He falls asleep in a warm bed, held loosely in the arms of the father of their new nation — he isn’t certain what bliss means anymore. The definition seems to change, decay and grow with each passing year. But even if this isn’t it, he thinks it might be at least a third of the equation.  
  
He’ll take the rumors, insidious as they are, the references to his “daddy” in passing pamphlets. He smirks at the notion. The rumormongers don’t know the half of it.

 


End file.
